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  • When I was young, I would hold my breath until I turned blue. Deep stretch of my lungs, air still at the top of my throat, I was alive inside my body. Hold it, hold it, lips tingling, chest moving with a heartbeat fully realized. The shifting of muscles moving into my center, an opening, a closing. Suction. The river rush in my ears, underwater, contained. Hold it. Taste of salt in my mouth, unimagined and thick. There is blood inside me, I think, there is blood inside me and bones and meat and worms and water. Run my fingers over my skin, everything is softer, finer, more subtle and sensitive. My body my body my body. Hold it. There is nothing but me, nothing but me and the breath that I choose to keep.
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Collecting stories is a way to gather your favorite Cowbird stories into shareable collections — kind of like assembling personal anthologies.

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